


Holmes Meets A Baby

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Comment Fic, Gen, Kid Fic, Kink Meme, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:47:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay, I've seen it prompted elsewhere that Mary actually dies giving birth, leaving Watson/Holmes with a daughter to raise. I cannot get enough of this idea. Please shower me with adorable kid!fic with Watson/Holmes parenting. And don't be afraid to go further down the road either; I think it would be adorable how freaked out and over protective Holmes would be on their daughters wedding day."</p><p>Here's an ancient fill of mine from the SH Kink Meme. Or, in other words, a bunch of snippets of fluffy Victorian kidfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Small Detective

************

"Whatever does it mean?" Holmes murmured, surveying the unfamiliar situation before him.

"Isn't it obvious?" I laughed, gently prising chubby fingers away from the meerschaum. I handed the pipe back to my friend. "She's investigating."

"And what, precisely, is she investigating?" he asked.

"Everything, of course," I replied.

Holmes frowned at the sticky smudges adorning his favorite pipe. "Her methods are sloppy," he said, pulling out a handkerchief.

"Certainly, Holmes, you are quite correct. An appalling lack of discipline, indeed." I ruffled the unrepentant non-professional's golden hair. "And what do you have to say for yourself, young lady?" I asked mock-sternly, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

"Papa, down!" she said, ready to resume her research.

"Patience, darling." I glanced back at Holmes. "Are there currently any guns, blades, other weapons, poisonous plants, animals, or compounds, volatile chemicals, or other potentially hazardous items on the floor or within easy reach to someone who is three feet tall?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Not at the moment, no."

"Valuable paperwork, evidence, or other fragile items to which you are particularly attached?"

"Again no, but thank you for asking."

"Then, would you mind terribly..."

"Not at all," he laughed. "Set her loose, Watson."


	2. Fundamentals

"I'll teach her to box," Holmes announced out of the blue.

"No."

"Whyever not?" he asked, sounding genuinely surprised by my instant dismissal.

I looked at him over my newspaper. "You're not going to punch my daughter in the face, Holmes."

"Well, not if she blocks properly," he replied. His tone was that of one who tires of explaining the obvious.

I put the paper down and began to massage my temples. "Holmes, no."

He narrowed his eyes. "You never let us have any fun."

"One of us has to be the adult. And don't pout."

"You'll stunt her development."

"I thought you said she did better than the Yarders on that intelligence test you devised."

"Of course she did."

"That's my girl. When she learns to count past five, she'll be a force to be reckoned with."

"Assuming she hasn't been kidnapped by bandits because you wouldn't let me teach her to defend herself," he muttered darkly.

Given who the child spent her time with, the scenario was less absurd than I was comfortable with. "When she's _older_ ," I conceded, "you may teach her to fence."

His face lit up. "I knew you'd see reason," he said triumphantly. His eyes narrowed again. "How much older?"

I thought about it for a moment. "Eight."

"Six."

_"Eight."_

"Seven?"

"Nine."

Holmes backpedaled. "Eight is good. I can wait until she's eight."

"Excellent." I smiled and returned to my newspaper. After a few minutes, I became aware that I was being stared at, intently. "Yes, Holmes?" I sighed.

"You'll really let me teach a seven-year-old girl how to fence?" he asked tentatively.

"Eight," I reminded him. "And I'm not in the habit of making promises that I won't keep. Besides," I continued, "I'll confess that my heart trembles at the thought of the trouble that the two of you will get into together, and I can't possibly keep track of you both on my own. It will be a great comfort knowing that the two of you have each other's backs."


	3. Brought Low

Over the course of our long and varied career, Sherlock Holmes and I had been shot, stabbed, beaten, poisoned, nearly set on fire and, in one memorable and never-again-to-be-mentioned occasion, suspended upside-down over a pit of frenzied stoats. Generally speaking, my friend had handled each of these instances with great composure and aplomb. You will forgive me, then, for my initial shock at seeing the man fall apart over a skinned knee.


	4. A Better Influence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holmes POV

Six weeks after my return from the grave, I closed my ears (and veins) forever to the siren call of the Moroccan case. In the end, it wasn't Watson's pleading or lecturing or adjective attempts to appeal to my better nature that won me over. It was the day he took me aside and told me, quite calmly, that he could not, in good conscience, allow me near his daughter if I were under the influence of anything stronger than my after-dinner brandy and copious amounts of shag.


	5. An Outing In The Park

Being accosted by a couple of roughs intent on discouraging me from pursuing my latest case isn't an entirely unusual occurrence, in my experience. However, the fact that the Watson by my side was _not_ my stalwart ex-Army Doctor, but rather a small girl still six months away from her first official fencing lesson was both unique and terrifying.

"Stay behind me, Violet," I warned, and hoped that, for once, the headstrong little girl would do what I said without a volley of questions. I was impressed when she actually did what I asked, her wide eyes the only indication that she was frightened. Now all I had to do was defeat two quite large, if rather stupid-looking men, without any physical or emotional harm coming to the child, and hope that was enough to keep her father and the alarmingly maternal Mrs. Hudson from killing me.

The first man went down with a couple of well-aimed punches, but the larger of the two got in several lucky blows of his own. I must have been disoriented, because the next thing I knew he had picked up a large stick... which he promptly dropped with a howl, after receiving several sharp kicks to the shins and ankles, courtesy of Miss Watson. And to think that Mrs. Hudson had been so adamantly opposed to my procuring the child a pair of hobnailed boots! My exultation was short-lived, however, when the miscreant picked my young charge up by her jacket. My heart dropped into my stomach, but the girl twisted around and delivered yet another excruciatingly well-aimed kick to the brute. He dropped to the ground, and I believe she would have kicked him again for good measure had I not pulled her away from him.

By now, the local constabulary, having finally perceived that something was amiss, had come running. I largely ignored them as I worriedly checked Violet over for injuries, somewhat unnerved by her effective, if unsportsmanlike, defense.

"What on earth were you thinking?" I scolded, the knowledge of how very badly this whole situation could have been making my tone rather sharper than I intended.

"He's a bad man, and he tried to hurt you," she explained, her tone clearly indicating that she was stating the obvious and her expression so very like her father's that I gave up on the lecture and gathered the girl up into a hug. "Thank you," I said. "Although I certainly never taught you _that._ " She smiled back at me, and we headed back to Baker Street. Much later, I realized that while the good doctor was usually quick to acquiesce to Mrs. Hudson's admittedly greater knowledge on the proper care and feeding of little girls, he had immediately taken my side when it came to the boots.


	6. Once Upon A Time

When the child was old enough to demand bedtime stories, I couldn't resist the opportunity to tease Watson about finally finding the perfect audience for his romantic nonsense. He took it in good grace, as usual, and of course I was quite right. She was certainly a much more appreciative listener than I have ever been. But I've never denied that Watson has a way with words, and, after all, what child wouldn't delight in her very own personal storyteller? Perhaps, too, she realised from the beginning what I only really started to suspect after watching my friend spinning his tales, night after night, of adventure about little blonde milkmaids or mermaids or pirate queens named Violet. They say that authors write what they know, and that is true enough. But that is an incomplete observation. My dear Watson crafts his stories around what he loves, and he always has.


	7. She Has Her Father's Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fast-forward to Violet's teen years...

"You want me to die alone."

"Violet, what have I told you about melodrama?"

"It works better with false teeth in?"

"Cheeky girl. Now whatever are you fussing about?"

"Uncle dearest, you simply _must_ stop threatening to murder all the young gentlemen who come to call on me."

"I've done no such thing!"

"Well, the poor boys are terrified of you already, and showing off your collection of rare, untraceable poisons is not helpful."

"I beg to differ."

"Uncle Sherlock!"

"I was simply trying to make conversation, my dear. Any young man who is that easily intimidated is hardly a worthy suitor in any case."

"I would rather enjoy the opportunity to decide that for myself..."

"What a terrifying thought."

"I believe I ought to be offended."

"You are young and impressionable, and need someone older and wiser to look out for your best interests. I am sure that last one had sinister intentions."

"Mrs. Hudson is perfectly capable of looking out for my interests without driving the lads away."

"Mrs. Hudson is a soft touch for a charming smile."

"It _is_ possible that dealing with you and Father for all these years has worn down her defenses."

"Your father has never been anything but a gentleman."

"My father occupied himself during your little toxicology lecture by cleaning and loading his revolver!"

"There is that."

"If you don't let this next one alone, I promise I shall name all of the cats after you!"

"The...what?"

"That's what spinsters do, isn't it? Sit in their garrets and go soppy over their cats while they dream of their blighted youths?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

"...Too much?"

"Definitely too much. Less is more, my dear."

"Just one little carriage ride with a boy who isn't afraid that if he looks me in the eye they'll never find the body?"

"Those big, sad, eyes won't work on me, girl. I'm on to you."

" _Please_ , Uncle Sherlock?"

"...Fine."

"And you'll tell Father to keep his scalpels in his medical bag?"

"I make you no promises."

"You are the best Uncle ever, and I adore you."

"A hundred years ago, you'd have been burned as a witch."

"If it will make you feel better, I'll wear my tackety boots."

"That's my girl."


End file.
